When I crawl in bed at night,
I have high heady dreams of what morning will be like.
I will awaken to a brewed pot of coffee and a couple of hours
of dark peaceful child free time to write.
The children will come meandering out on their own,
fully dressed, ready for school and make their own breakfast.
We will climb peacefully into the van, not forgetting anything,
and sing songs all the way to school.
This morning was more like D-Day.
I missed my alarm and missed out on my writing time.
Scott and I woke up with 30 minutes to get us all ready,
a blaring television and the trying task of awakening the one
child who actually has to be to school on time.
I believe Jack is Rip Van Winkle in 1st grade form and
could sleep until he is 60.
When he finally makes it to the table, we are in a mad
scramble, his hair looks like it has taken on jet fuel and
is trying to sky rocket off of his scalp. I just let it be.
Every morning I tell Jack, don't wipe your hands on your pants.
Every morning he goes to school with peanut butter,
jam or syrup on his pants.
EVERY MORNING. This morning I asked him,
"Jack, do you feel like we have the same conversation every morning?"
He smiled and said, "Yep. Deja vu, Mom."
Addison has taken to calling out my name like a trucker from the bronx.
"Maaaaa, Maaaaa, Maaaaa!" He saw me put pretzels in Jack's lunch.
He does not stop accosting me with "Maaa!" until I give one to him.
Scott stops me in the kitchen and says, "Your bangs are doing something."
Which sent me to the bathroom, lest I go out in public, with my bangs
Will follows me into the bathroom. As I am fixing my hair,
he says, pointing to the scale, "Mom, I want you to stand on here.
I want to see what number you are."
"Not right now."
"Will, I am not going to step on the scale."
"Is it because you don't want to see what number you are?"
"Yes, that is exactly right. I do not want to see what number I am."
"Are you 2-8-0?"
"No, I am not 2-8-0!"
"Are you 2-0-0?"
"What number are you, Mom?"
"Will, for the record I am far less than 2-8-0 or 2-0-0.
That's all I'm going to say. Go get your shoes on."
There is nothing that kills the morning's joy better than having
someone who weighs less than a peanut, ask you what number you are.
And so the morning went.
We are all still alive but a bit wounded with poorly coiffured hair.
Let's hope for a better afternoon.
ps if your morning was similar, you might want to sign up for the
thanksgiving giveaway...a necklace might make you feel better